Chapter 18
GARRETT
He’s done.
He shook the sponsors’ hands. He posed for photos with the hospital’s board of directors and their aggressively matchmaking wives. He smiled—fine, he bared his teeth—and nodded through three different “So how’s the season going?” small talk death spirals.
If one more older woman winks and tells him about her beautiful granddaughter, he’s going to take a skate blade to his throat.
The ballroom is now a graveyard of glitter and empty champagne flutes.
Servers sweep through the debris, gathering abandoned masks and wilted napkins.
Lights in snowflake patterns drift lazily over the dance floor where a few older couples sway and players dance with wives or girlfriends, or rather, women who think they’re girlfriends.
Now he’s done.
Garrett weaves toward the exit, tugging his jacket straight, ignoring the chatter and clinking glasses behind him. His shoes feel too tight, his collar’s strangling him, and his head’s still fogged up with her.
She’s all he can think about, and it’s pissing him off.
He shouldn’t care. He shouldn’t still feel the ghost of her plush, strawberry lips on his, shouldn’t still feel the phantom pressure of her nails digging into his shoulders.
He shouldn’t still be imagining the perfect, flushed curves of her breasts, the way she whimpered and clung to him in the closet.
He shouldn’t be remembering any of it.
Because she’d made it clear—painfully clear—what it meant to her.
Nothing.
Just a lapse in judgment. Like bangs.
Garrett grits his teeth and heads for the door, every part of him wound tight. The sooner he’s out of here, the better.
“Yo, Stretch!” a voice calls behind him. “You ghostin’ already?”
Garrett pauses. Closes his eyes. Just once, he’d like to leave a room with no one noticing.
Carter jogs up beside him, flanked by Flea, who looks equally mischievous and unbothered, probably because he hasn’t worn shoes since dessert.
“Morning skate’s canceled before the roadie tomorrow,” Carter announces, clapping Garrett on the back. “We’re going out. You in?”
“No.”
Carter whistles. “Jesus, did someone kick your cat?”
Garrett shrugs him off and keeps walking, jaw tight.
But Carter’s not done. His grin widens, eyes lighting up with mischief. “Wait. Is this about Red?”
Garrett stops short.
The cocky forward’s eyebrows shoot up like he’s just hit the jackpot. “Ohhh it is. Damn, Tall. What happened, you fumble the ball?”
Garrett’s jaw ticks. His silence is volcanic.
Carter’s laugh is wheezy, drunk, and absolutely delighted. He turns and waves to someone across the room. “Naomi! You in, baby girl?”
Fuck.
Garrett’s pulse spikes as he turns, and there she is.
Naomi walks toward them, gorgeous and utterly unreadable. Her eyes flick up to Garrett, wariness knitting her brows.
“You coming to the after party?” Carter asks her.
Naomi blinks. “There’s an after party?”
“There’s always an after-party,” Flea says solemnly.
Carter jerks his chin toward the exit. “Couple of the guys are heading to that weird speakeasy on Trumbull.”
Naomi gives a soft huff that might be a laugh. She looks exhausted. Flushed, if you knew what to look for. Garrett stares straight ahead, not meeting her eyes, but sees her glance at him, lip caught between her teeth.
And for a second—just a second—he wonders if she’s hoping he’ll go too.
He should keep his mouth shut.
But he slices.
“Don’t worry, Short Stack,” he says, tone razor-sharp. “You’re safe. I’ve had enough lapses in judgment for one night.”
There’s a pause, taut and ugly. He doesn’t flinch.
He’s exhausted, done with smiling, done with donors, done pretending he’s unaffected.
But most all, he’s furious he can’t drag her home and fuck her again and again until he’s scraped her out of his system so thoroughly that he can look her in the eye and say sure, no catching feelings here either.
Her blue eyes flash with surprise, then dismay. He twists the knife anyway.
“You should go, though,” he says, voice flat as concrete. “Carter’ll take good care of you.”
Garrett meant it to sting. He just didn’t expect to be the one bleeding.
He turns before she can answer.
If she’s angry, that’s fine. It’s cleaner than letting her see what’s bruised and broken under his skin.